Heartbeat
by EleanorKate
Summary: SPOILER FOR S2 EP8


**SPOILER FOR S2 EP8**

As his head touched the cold wall, marooned in no man's land excluded by a door labelled "Operating Theatre", tears that he had tried to stem for hours, overflowed. Nurses and doctors had passed him and paid him little heed as he paced the floor strangled by his regulation tie, feeling claustrophobic, helpless, lost and deeply, deeply alone. Everything he loved and could have ever wanted was behind that door and there was nothing he could do.

All the time they had been in Sierra Leone he had made sure she was safe; taught her to drive a car so she was safe. She had taken to driving perhaps more easily than he had envisaged and felt guilty for thinking she would not. He had her to protect and more so, now, their child. That was his job - to protect her and that tiny little life, but now? He could do nothing, not even knowing anything more than those few words that Sister Julienne had uttered to him in the sitting room.

_"She is bleeding more than we would perhaps like. We felt it wise for her to be in hospital."_

He was not a stupid man. He knew Sister Julienne was icing the cake too well. He knew she was trying to be gentle but he could see her eyes. He had rushed passed her following the ambulance driver, legs pretending to hold him up as he staggered down the steps, feeling Cynthia's hand touch his arm. Nobody was going in that Ambulance but him as his place was beside her come thick or thin.

Now standing in a corridor at God knows what time of night, he was swinging from hope that she was in the safest place to despair that his family was dying as each second passed. His head felt like cotton wool, feeling those icy hands of anxiety scraping their way around his shoulders that his wife had so eloquently described so many times before. Well he knew what she meant now as he just wanted to sink to the floor, sink_ into_ the floor and wake up when she was up, about, smiling, _healthy_.

He felt the cool wall soothe his developing headache. Would he have to tell her their child was dead? How do you tell your wife that the baby she has cared for inside her for so long is dead? Nobody else would tell her though. Despite the fear that had started to grip him the moment Sister Julienne had uttered those words and out of the corner of his eye he had seen Trixie rush past holding her hand over her mouth, it was up to him to tell her; it was his duty to tell her however horrific that news would be. He owed it to her to be the only one to say those words.

He slipped down on the floor, no longer caring who or what walked by, no longer worried about the state of his uniform or looking like he had been dragged from the docks. His head hurt, his eyes burned and he had no idea what time it was. He no longer even had the strength to see whether another half an hour or 2 minutes had passed even though his watch was inches from his eyes, arms crossed over his knees.

He felt hungry yet knew that even if a single drop of tea or a morsel of food crossed his lips, he would be sick.

Away in the distance he heard a door slam and somebody cough. He thought he heard a baby murmuring but dismissed it. Sometimes you hear sounds you desperately want to hear so your mind plays tricks on you, taunting you into believing in those things that would comfort but suddenly turn its back on you when you realise it is only your imagination.

"Mr Noakes?" he heard from a voice above his head. He looked up seeing the purple hem of a nurse's uniform. He felt drunk, his brain not understanding it was his own name he heard. He felt deaf, blind, dumb to anything but terror.

"Mr Noakes?" he heard again. She had a Welsh accent. How odd it was that the only thing that registered was that the nurse clearly standing in front of him had a Welsh accent. He raised his head, seeing the edge of a cream knitted blanket hanging and through the fog, seeing a pink foot poking through a gap in the wool. A heel that moved and toes that flexed. A heel and foot that Camilla had half-heartedly complained about so many times as they ran a marathon against her ribs.

He heard that same snuffling sound that he had thought was his mind playing cruel tricks and the foot withdraw back into the warmth of the blanket.

"Would you like to meet your son?" she asked, seeing him raise his head, eyes red, dark circles evident and that permanent worried frown. It always broke her heart to see loved ones crying, desperate for news of their wife, husband, son, daughter, mother or father and here this man was no different.

He stood up, sliding back up the wall, unsure whether his legs would take his weight.

"Take him" she said.

"He's alright?" he asked, arms feeling light and suddenly unsafe to be holding such a precious creature.

"Fighting fit it would seem" the Nurse said. "Needed a quick blast of oxygen but otherwise no, he made himself known in there sure enough".

The baby was placed in his arms; his son's head nestled at his elbow. He felt a hand guide him away from the wall.

"Come and sit with him", she said, turning him bodily into one of the rooms behind him. He wasn't listening to the nurse, mesmerised by the face he could see before him, feeling the child wriggle closer to him.

"I need to get a gown for you. I will be back shortly".

Peter nodded, but snapping out of the haze as she turned away.

"Wait" he said, no longer even sure whether he was whispering or shouting. "Where's my wife?"

"In theatre still".

"Is she?" He did not want to utter that evil word, not in front of his son.

"She is not letting go quite yet".

He nodded as he felt a tiny hand try to take a grab at his thumb, not having seen the pair of blue eyes that had opened and fixated on him. That small touch, a warm hand with its tiny fingernails, made his heart jump in surprise.

He sought the chair, settling down, hearing the door close so they were left in privacy. It had been so easy to talk to him whilst he was still inhabiting his mother; so easy to talk to him when he could not see his face. There had been those times Camilla had caught him talking to the baby in the middle of the night when she had teased him into embarrassment before telling him she loved him wanting to get to know their child. An involuntary smile crossed his face when he remembered the good-natured ticking off he had had when she had felt she was telling the baby how much he loved her more he was telling his own wife.

He settled on an age old greeting.

"Hello son", he whispered, brushing away the tuft of almost blonde hair. "How glad I am to see you".

"I do hope you have taken care of your mummy in there, because she was so waiting to see you too. She will be here to say 'Hello' to you shortly".

Peter sat, not thinking, staring at the child in his arms as the eyes fluttered closed again. He didn't look at the clock, but the presence of this other life in this room oddly soothed him. He had part of Camilla with him right now; all he needed was for her to come back to him and they could be this family that he desperately wanted them to be.

As a small hand took a more earnest hold of his thumb again, he also found how easy it was to fall in love in a heartbeat.

EK


End file.
